


The Sharp Knife Of A Short Life

by ghettoassenglishman



Series: Take my hand--Take My Whole life too [39]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bipolar Disorder, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Sad Ian, Suicide Attempt, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr: otpprompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 08:29:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3889483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anon Prompt; "Idk how you are with angst but if you like it then Ian and Mick pairing.. Person A has to talk person B off a ledge. Literally. All I request is no character death."</p><p>And</p><p>Also inspired by: 'Imagine person A is feeling suicidal because they feel that no one would even care if they died. Looking down from the place that they intend to jump from, they decide to give the world a final chance to prove someone cares by dialling a random number on their phone. If no one answers, they will jump. The number they dial just so happens to be person B’s number.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sharp Knife Of A Short Life

**Author's Note:**

> I was actually thinking of doing this OTP prompt that I found, then this lovely anon prompted me with a similar thing and I HAD to do it. Like HAD, I really love the prompt they gave me and I'm so happy I got to do it...finally. SO THANKYOU, I hope you like it:)

This is it. This was the point Ian would end it all and the burden of his existence wouldn't have to weigh people down no more. He's stood at the end of an old abandoned building, wiggling his bare toes against the rough surface of the ledge, watching the rough concrete below him. It was a long way down. But if it would block out the voices roaming around in his head, stop him from hurting his family, _stop_ the world around him from spinning out of control – it was worth the journey.

A half dozen times in the past week he'd walked the same path, leading up the ledge of the building, getting further each time. This time, he knew there was no way back, he knew that the stairs were not the option to get to ground level.

The wind blows furiously at his face, his legs wobbly against his position on the ledge, his breath catching in his throat. He ignored it all, his face dashed with burning tears, hands shaking with fear. Looking up, he focuses on the night sky for the last time, hoping to finally see the stars, but it hurt like a bruise. There was only one place he could see them and he was heading there in only a couple split minutes.

Ian wiped his eyes, sniffing up for any ounce of strength he had left, he empties his pockets; dropping his wallet, keys, knife, _even_ the picture of all of the Gallagher's together. When he goes to place his phone down against the cold, rough edge, he feels himself hesitate. The screen lit up at his touch, revealing a picture of Liam messily eating cake, and providing the time of 2:23 AM. It only reminded him that no one had text or tried to call in the past three weeks, since he took a run for it.

It was his own fault, he guessed.

But who would? He was broken. Broken by the stupid disorder that he watched destroy his mother, ruin his family, tear Frank into two. They wouldn't miss him, he was nothing but a bother, a _burden._ Still, he needed that finality, that not one person cared about him enough to stop him. Ian wasn't ready yet to place his phone into the pile. Not yet.

“Fuck it.” He mumbles to himself, sloppily unlocking his phone. “I'll dial a random number, if no one answers, that's it. Not even the universe gives a shit.” Ian flinches at the cold sound of his own voice, wincing at the nipping breeze that attacked through his thin layer of clothing.

He dials the local area code, adding the rest of the number plucked from thin air. It rings, and rings, like an awaiting death sentence. It doesn't shock him really; until it does.

There was an answer after the fourth ring, a male gruff voice flowing through. “What?”

Ian stops breathing, his eyes staring in shock, someone actually answered. The gruff, irritated voice was the only sign that _maybe_ the universe had something planned for him. He doesn't answer, he stands stuck in his place, hand gripping tightly against the phone.

“I can hear you breathing, you dick, what the fuck do you want?” The voice echoes over the line, groaning evident in the background, maybe even a hint of shouting. When Ian doesn't answer, the voice attacks again, this time a little more angry. “Who the fuck is this?”

Ian's voice is small, shaky and fragile. “Nobody. I don't fucking matter.”

He hears a displeased and impatient groan on the other side, the shuffle of sheets, and a flick of a lighter. “And why the fuck are you calling me? _How_ the fuck are you calling me?” Ian would say he felt intimidated, but he was in more fear of the long drop ahead of him, barely meters away.

Ian could hear the note of pathetic desperation in his voice, the grate of exhaustion and nippiness beneath it, his nose bunged up from crying, he couldn't stop it. There was no point. “I just needed to hear a voice, I guess.”

The voice scoffs, huffing against the line, “And why the fuck did you want to hear my voice, _nobody?”_ He hears more movement, the suck of a filter, and the exhale of smoke. God, he really needed a fucking cigarette, it would of made things a little less stressful.

“It's Ian. My name is fucking Ian.” He snaps. He was tired of being called different things; Lip, Gallagher, burden, _not-my-fucking son,_ ginger snap, red. The list could go on. Before the voice can answer, he's talking again, taking it as the moment of opportunity to let it out for the last time. “I didn't want to call you, I wanted to call _someone._ My fucking family wouldn't give a shit if my name popped up against their screen, they were done with me when this whole thing came about.”

He hears the voice loosing his patience, something Ian learned to get used to. “Jesus Christ, do you ever stop talking?”

Ian chuckles, wiping his eyes with his forearm. It was kind of funny, because he wouldn't be talking for much longer. He looks out across the section of the other buildings, “Guess that's another thing that's wrong with me.”

“What?” The man barks down the phone. His voice strangely calming Ian in a way he wasn't sure of yet. Irritated, the voice asks tiredly, “Why is it so fucking windy, where the hell are you, in a hurricane or some shit?” Ian was a little amused by the frustrated, oblivious man on the phone. It directed him away from the fact that he would jump from the roof soon.

Laughing wetly, he reaches out his freehand, letting the breeze hit against his fingers, “It doesn't matter, I won't be here much longer.” he closes his eyes, waiting for the guy to hang up, or just call him pathetic, instead he hears a laugh. A nice laugh to be exact.

“The cold finally got to you, _Ian?”_ It was clear the voice was teasing, letting a little joke into the air.

Ian smiles sadly, wishing that the cold was the only problem he had to face. “No. I finally got to the cold.” He knew he probably didn't make sense, but he hadn't eaten in two days and things were beginning to get delusional. He wasn't entirely sure if the voice was real. Softly, he adds, “It's not so bad when you think about it; _death.”_

Even through the phone he can feel the atmosphere dramatically change, the rise of silent concern rushing through the phone. The guy obviously didn't want to show it, so Ian didn't question it. “Woah, fucking, woah.” The voice whispers in a shout, his voice suddenly darker. “Rewind the fuck back, kid, why are you talking about death again?”

Ian should of known this guy had no clue. No one did. “I am greeting it with open arms after all.”

“Whatever that fucking means...” The voice mumbles, the intense shuffle of movement vibrating through the phone. “So, you called me when you're fucking dying? What the fuck man.” There's a hint of laughter in his voice, but Ian could sense the seriousness of his tone.

The hot tears stream against his cheeks, he gasps sharp as he tried to contain himself from jumping at the very second. “I've been dying for the past three years.” he shudders, not bothering to clean the mess of his face. “Just doing the same things, going batshit crazy and ruining peoples lives. I think it's time to accept it, don't you?” He asks, wanting to hear the stranger input on the whole thing.

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” The voice sounded puzzled, a little concerned.

Ian answers with the only explanation he knows; the truth, “What needs to be done.”

“ _Really?”_ The guy sounds amused, a little chuckle in his voice. “You woke me up at the ass-crack of fucking dawn, fucking rabbited on about your life, _but_ even I know you're not a complete idiot.”

It pushes him back a little, makes his legs wobble against the ledge, his hands looking out for some sort of balance, he presses the phone against his ear, frowning through the tears, “You don't know me.”

“No, I don't.” The voice agrees, tutting slightly. “But I know around –  _four_ minutes of you, and that's enough to stop you from jumping from a fucking roof or some shit like that.” For a moment Ian thinks the guy cares, that he actually didn't want him to jump, but he was more confused than anything.

His scoffs coldly, “Nail on the head.”

Silence risks over, until the voice starts again, “What?”

“You got it in one.”

Puzzled, the voice slightly breaks up against the wind, until its clearer than it had been in the duration of the phone call. “Got fucking what?”

Ian sighs, rubbing his hand through the back of his hair, closing his eyes through his sort explanation that somehow explained it all, “What I'm doing.” his toe curls over the edge, the drop closer than he had expected, but close enough for his heart to clench.

“You're on a roof?” the voice asks roughly.

Laughing a little, Ian feels amused by the voice in his sheer seconds of life left, “You don't sound the smart type.” If anything, the guy sounded like a thug- some sort of south-side dealer that had smoked too many joints from his own stash. Weirdly enough, he felt himself liking it. “But you sure worked it out. You'll see it in the paper when I jump from this ledge.” he flinches at the though, his hand curling around his own waist. “You watch out for that headline.”

He hears a splutter from over the line, a hitch of a harsh breath, “Jesus fucking Christ.” It was clear that the realisation of what Ian was actually doing had kicked in. Whether the guy gave a shit or not was a different story, and really – Ian didn't have the time to listen to it, but he felt himself wait for the voice to reply anyway.

“Bored yet?” Ian asks cockily, waiting for the line to go dead, the voice to disappear.

There's a couple of bangs, a couple of shifting sounds over the line, until the voice reappears, like a saviour. “When you're thinking of jumping off a roof, are you _always_ this much of an asshole?”

“Maybe.” Ian smirks to himself, the expression immediately dropping once he realised that this would be the last time someone would make him smile like that.

There's a small chuckle echoing through the phone line, the guy huffing helplessly against the back-end of his phone, before the wind crackles against the speaker and it makes Ian lean further to the sound. “Right, tough guy, where the fuck _is_ this roof?”

Something shoots inside of Ian, like a spark but _more,_ it hits him right in the chest, centralised. Was this guy ready to find him, was he _actually_ worried about Ian or was he just joking and Ian's mind was just playing tricks like it always did, like the voices did. “Why do you care?”

That's when he hears the slam of boots, a light grunt against the speaker, his heart speeds when the voice answers, “Honestly, I don't fucking know.” It's a little hectic, he tries to figure out the incoherent mumbles coming from the line, until he finally hears a gruff threat, “But you better tell me before I kick your fucking ass.”

“You can't do that over the phone.” Ian strikes with the facts, not wanting to believe that someone actually wanted to find him, and maybe stop him from ending his shitty-life.

Challenged, the voice comes off strong. “Watch me wise guy.” Then there's a commotion of sound, both light and harsh, the sound of soft mumbling and distant television sets murmuring in the background.

“Why?” Is all Ian can answer, the shock flooding through his veins.

He hears a shout, a slam of a door, another flick of a lighter. “I don't want to be some fucking suspect in your death _just_ because you rang me.” There's a slight amusement in his voice, as if he's trying to make Ian feel better, as if he knew him already. Ian's not sure why that makes him smile a little.

Scoffing, still shaking a little, he sighs against the phone. “Charming.”

The voice hums in agreement, his words broken up as he exhales from his smoke, “You'd understand if you knew me.” And that's when Ian realises, that's when the thought anonymously appears in his head like a rocket launching from its station. What if he _did_ feel like he knew him, what if he _wanted_ to know him?

Nervously, the ledge nearly out of his mind before the wind knocks him back into reality, it doesn't seem as scary as it did before. “Can I know you?”

“What?” The voice sounds shocked, spluttering against the smoke he had been exhaling into the air. Ian can't help but wonder why they sound so surprised in the question, how their voice cracked in a spluttering reply.

More imminent this time, Ian repeats himself, eyes still watching over the edge. “Can I get to know you?” His feet shift against the cold ground, the breeze lifting up through his open jacket.

There's a long silence over the phone, just a beep of a car in the distance, and Ian finally thinks that this guy had given up, put the phone down and got on with his life. It wasn't that surprising, that's what he wanted right? People to move on. Finally, he hears a heavy sigh across the line, “Yeah.” its quiet, it's a little fragile and Ian finds himself relating to that small sound. “Only if you don't take a leap of fucking faith off that roof.”

Ian thinks it's an illusion, a sick-minded twisted act that his mind had been playing on him. There was no way he could step off the ledge, it had taken time just to get to this spot, this time. It was what he wanted, right? To leave the world and let everyone else live on. Hardly heroic, or the death he had planned out for his life, but if the voices were gone it didn't seem _that_ bad to fall. In an instant, he finds himself blurting, “Okay.” With his own shock, he smacks a hand over his mouth, scared that he might say something else that's deluded to his mission.

“You fucking serious?” The voice asks, seriousness expressing through the phone like wildfire. Ian wasn't sure if he was serious, he wasn't sure what to do, but the voices in his head were belittled each time he heard the gruff voice against his ear, like an angel of some sort, perched at his shoulder.

Still not stepping off the ledge, he nods to himself, he had failed to even do this. “I need you to come get me.” he hears himself pleading, a pathetic whine in his throat that sounded nothing compared to a human.

“You are serious.” the stranger gasps a little, voice turning delicate against the rough wind hitting against the speakers. “You don't even know me, I could be some fucking serial killer for all you know.” Then he hears that chuckle, that break through, that noise that fluttered wings inside of him.

“Risk I've got take.” Ian dares to day, his voice slightly raspy from the ball in his throat. “I'd die either way, so it doesn't really matter to me if you're Jack the ripper or fucking Elton John.” Somewhere, deep inside of him, he wants the guy to be some serial killer, it would make the process much more quicker, _and_ he wouldn't have to move from the ledge he found himself clinging to.

The man huffs, his frustration evident through the phone, “Fucking fine. Where are you, asshole?”

There it is again, that rush of concern that Ian could already sense the guy didn't like showing. Before he knew his mouth was doing all the work, letting it go, “The abandoned buildings, just a left of the Kash N' Grab, they started building a-”

“I know where it fucking is.”

Ian had forgotten, through the rush of standing up against the world, to ringing the perfectly random stranger, to rejecting the idea of falling, that he had dialled the local area code. Of course this guy knew where the lot was. “You do?” He asks, still.

Sneering, the voice makes a slight groan over the line. “I live round the corner you dick.”

That was suddenly unexpected, because Ian knew he lived around the corner, well – he used to. If they would still let him in the house,that is. The Gallagher house would always be home, even if he ran away from it god-knows how many times. “So do I.” he whispers, nearly silently.

“Fuck off.” The man lets out an exhausted laugh, in amazement of the coincidence.

“I do.” Ian confirms, eyes still running.

There's an abrupt rumble from the other side, a bounce of steps, a gasp of breath from what sounded like running. Ian's heart beats faster, hoping that those steps led to him, or in-fact, maybe he didn't want them to lead to him, because he _really_ wanted to jump. Didn't he?

The sound slightly retching, the man asks, a little out of breath. “How come I've never seen you?”

Ian wondered that too, they literally lived a block away from each-other, how could they _not_ catch on to who the other one was. Then again, how can you look for a person when you don't know who you're looking for? It's all a little mad how his mind had suddenly flickered from death to life in a couple of seconds. “You don't even know what I look like.”

The phone was silent for a long moment, and there was a gentle click, the hum of the dead line. Ian looks down at his phone in horror, his leg beginning to shake as they had the first time he had looked over the edge. Had the man just hung up on him? _Leaving_ him? Maybe this _was_ it.

“Turn around fuckhead.” _that_ voice growled softly through the darkness, louder and more real. Ian turns slowly, his feet still planted against the ledge of the building. Through the dark-lit section of the roof, he can just make out a small brunette, pocketing his phone with a sly, but smirking smile. “Ian fucking Gallagher.”

That's when Ian realised where he knew that voice from, where he had heard it countless times. He and Mandy had been good friends since highschool, merely inseparable, and he had seen Mickey a couple of times in the past, but only glimpses before the thug hid away in his bedroom. Mickey was shorter that he had remembered, his coat slightly big against his baggy sweats that hung loosely against his hips. It wasn't surprising when Ian caught a peep of Mickey's black tank, the shine of his gold chain wrapped around his neck. It didn't matter; Ian felt his breath caught up against his lungs, his mouth unable to find words. Mickey was sure beautiful in the darkness.

It made Ian suddenly aware of his own appearance; his messy, greasy red hair and wrinkled clothes. It had been days since he'd bothered changing. When did he _even_ last shower?

“What?” Ian accidentally mutters out, his eyes widening at his own words. “Shit, _Mickey._ Mickey Milkovich?” Ian repeats over and over in his head. It was more than shocking that the Milkovich had left his house for some pathetic, sad loser that wanted to kill himself.

The brunette takes a step forward, hands holding up in surrender when Ian shuffles backwards a little to the edge. “I could of guessed it would be your ginger-ass up here.”

“Not like you'd know what I'm like.” Ian answers back, coldly.

“I could guess.”

Ian shakes his head, his mind going back to his original plan once he saw it was Mickey. It wasn't the fact that the Milkovich was known for his fag-bashing activities and thieving schemes, it was more of the fact that Ian knew Mickey could be _more._ More than he ever would be. Ian didn't want Mickey to know him, he didn't want the brunette to be embedded in the mess of his life.“I don't want you to.”

Ignoring Ian, Mickey steps forward again, reaching into his pocket for a pack of smokes. Ian licks his lips ravishingly, unsure of what he wanted more; the cigarettes or Mickey. God, did he just think that?

The brunette lights one up, humming against the filter when he takes the first drag, “You going to get down, Gallagher?” He asks, arching his eyebrow in a orderly fashion, making Ian's stomach twist into a bending spiral.

“No.” He answers instantly. This jump was his aim, he had been planning this for weeks; the end. Nothing would take away the hallow feeling of not being good enough, of being crazy, of never being free because he'd be dosed up for the rest of his life. The ground over the edge was his destination. It had to be.

Mickey's thumb itches at the side of his eyebrow, tutting his lips. “You said you would.”

And Ian knew he had said that, he knew he had agreed to Mickey's off. That was before he knew. That's before he looked over the edge and wondered what it would feel like to be free. Quietly, he speaks, turning his back to Mickey, the wind sweeping across his face, “That's before I knew you were you.”

“ _And_ what the fuck is wrong with me?” Mickey suddenly barks, his feet shuffling closer to where Ian was stood. Ian still didn't turn.

Ian shakes his head, one hand falling to the back of his neck, “Nothing.” He whispers, barely audible through the passing wind. “That's the problem.”

Mickey didn't have to walk to the top of an abandoned building to stop some hopeless redhead jumping off the roof, he didn't have to wonder and be concerned about whether he lived or not. That was if he was concerned, of course. Ian knew the thug had a reputation, he had spoke of it himself, but he always thought there was something more to that, something _good._

Mickey scoffs behind him, his voice closer that Ian expected. “You _really_ don't know me then.”

Shrugging, Ian looks down towards his fiddling fingers, pulling scarcely at the skin at the side of his nails. “Not many people do.” he looks back out across the buildings, wondering whether this was it, trying to work out whether this was the point he'd end it all. It had to end at some point, right? He turns his head half to the side, catching Mickey close behind him in his gaze, sighing he adds, “But I know you don't need this shit in your life.”

No one did.

Mickey makes an unappreciative sound, tutting. “You never know, a little red might do me good.”

That does sound appealing, it really does, but when had Mickey been _gay?_ Ian drops his mouth in shock, directing his gaze back to the dim light houses just past the old buildings. It only stirs something up in his stomach, that greedy sensation that fed off his fear and sadness. “Then go find some girl who'll pick your fancy, I'm still fucking jumping.”

“No you fucking ain't.”

Ian can feel his tears rush against his cheeks, falling against the curve of his mouth. Gritting through his teeth, he answers, “Yes I am.”

Mickey's feet move closer, the long crunch of the rubble underneath his boots echoing across the roof-top, Ian bites back his protest, his face scrunching up in a coil. Smoothly, Mickey comes back as strong as Ian had, “You would of done it already.”

Ian manages to shut his mouth. The truth finally hitting him, even if he didn't want him to be right, Mickey was being truthful. If Ian was willing to jump he would of took that leap as soon as he emptied his pockets, he wouldn't of even thought to call a random stranger who might, and maybe had already, change his life. As soon as the words finally kick in, Ian's ready to turn but his step stumbles, nearly toppling over the edge.

Strong arms urgently grab onto his waist, roughly pulling him off the side of the ledge. Ian falls backwards, his legs buckling under the tremble that flooded through the whole of his body. His face hurts from crying, and all of his body is weak, barely able to keep up right for the lack of strength it tried to grasp onto. Mickey's arms are tightly gripping at his shirt, his body pressing against Ian's chest. Ian let out a breath he had no clue of holding, feeling a rush of relief wash over him when he fell the right way.

Mickey pulls him up a little, stabilizing him in a standing position, with a hand still around his waist, he laughs, peering over the edge a little. “You'd make a pretty fucking picture down there, Gallagher.”

“Ian.” Ian corrects.

Rolling his eyes, Mickey pulls away slightly against his grip, eyes locking with Ian's. Blue, glimmering balls of light that Ian had noticed till now. “Ian.” He recalls, copying Ian's tone mockingly.

Letting go, he's still standing extremely close to Mickey, (because for some reason it helped him feel grounded, safe, like he wouldn't fall). The brunette dusts himself off awkwardly, still glancing over Ian in concern. Ian's still a little confused, puzzled why Mickey of _all_ people would stop him from falling off a ledge. “Then why didn't you let me jump.”

Mickey's eyes flicker to his, tongue poking out anxiously, “Do I really need to fucking explain it?”

Nodding, Ian squints his eyes, his chest still clenching and contracting. The voices were still there, asking him to jump, pleading he'd take the leap over the edge, but the glimmer in Mickey's eyes helped block the noise out a little. “Milkoviches aren't known for saving people who are about to jump off a ledge.”

Narrowing his eyes, Mickey retorts, catching him off guard, “Gallagher's aren't known for giving up.”

With the truth lying behind the words, Ian can't help but feel his eyes glaze over, they didn't give up. He was right. Gallagher's were strong, they stuck by through the shit and shoved it back, they always did. That's what Fiona had told him, everyday, _You can't give up Ian. You're stronger than that. We all are._ But this was different, wasn't it, Ian wasn't as strong as people thought. Before he knew it, his eyes glanced over, “There's a first time for everything.”

Then Mickey looks like he wants to say something, trapped within a trance Ian didn't know of yet, he licked his lips, boring his eyes into Ian's like it meant something. “I guess there is.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be posting either twice or two fics I have written, based in your prompts, each day. I have exams coming up, but I'm still writing:) so don't worry, they are being written as you read this now


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